


Wayward Son

by narrativeimperative



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-Season/Series 02, Self-Hatred, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:12:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrativeimperative/pseuds/narrativeimperative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Thursday prepares to receive Morse back from his stint at Witney, Jakes has to face the reality of being pushed aside - once again - for the DC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wayward Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [athena_crikey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/gifts).



“Thank God for Witney,” Jakes mutters to himself, taking a deep drag of his cigarette.

He’s not sure if he means it.

Either way, there’s no one around to hear – the office is almost deserted. It’s not often Jakes stays after hours, but he’s a copper, and sometimes a copper does what a copper has to do.

In this case, it’s waiting up for the old man while he and Bright jaw on about this latest case. They’re in Bright’s office, obscured by the low light and the slats, but Jakes can hear them well enough, talking in low but audible voices. They’re tight, professional, concerned but not worried – the case has tied the station up in red tape, and it’s been frustrating for everyone.

Thursday’s had to lean on his bagman a little more than usual over the past week.

Jakes isn’t Morse, but he isn’t stupid either. He knows that his promotion is only temporary. _Bagman once again_ , Jakes snorts. His brain supplies the tune:

 

_A bagman once again_

_And Peter, long a DS, be_

_A bagman once again_

 

He knows it won't last long.

He glances up from his work – there’s always work to be done, even at this hour – to the closed office door. Nobody’s backlit against the window through the slats like you see in the movies, but there’s enough light that he can make out their figures, shifting back and forward in their chairs.

Jakes can tell when Thursday leans forward casually, rearranging his legs before Bright’s desk. That’s a good sign. If it was bad news from Bright, he’d expect Thursday to be agitated, and the old man goes still when he’s agitated, a kind of self-taught thingummy. It’s what’s-it, counter-intuitive, but Jakes cottoned onto it pretty quickly.

Jakes isn’t Morse, but he’s got a keen eye – especially for people. You need a keen eye for people in this job, and he thinks that’s where Morse has got it wrong, because he’s never seen a man in this line of work who’s worse at reading people than the DC. Morse is quiet, polite, doesn’t like to interrupt. He’d take hours just to wait for someone to let him in; Jakes knows that sometimes you have to push through.

Not that that matters – Jakes knows which way the wind’s blowing now. Morse is at Witney “recuperating” or whatever it is he’s doing and when that’s done he’ll be back home in the station and that will be the end of _that_. Even if Jakes hadn’t known this was only a temporary post for him, being reinstated like this, he’d have been able to figure it out pretty quickly.

The old man doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, but Jakes is good with people, he thinks, and their conversation has strayed back to good old Endeavour Morse enough times that he’s got a pretty strong sense of the lay of the land.

Thursday has been talking about Morse _at_  Jakes, not with him. He’s missing him. It's plain.

_Not enough, not good enough._

And it’s not just him. Thursday’s wife asks after him, with undisguised pity in her voice. Joan asked after him, that one awkward morning she happened to be coming down the stairs just as Jakes stepped into their foyer out of the rain.

Jakes stares at Thursday’s muddy silhouette through the glass, watching that fatherly way he has of bobbing his head in assent. Jakes has always found it a comforting gesture.

Jakes thinks he understands. There’s something about Morse that sticks. In his own defence, Jakes has built up a pretty good list of the other man’s weak points. Moody. Irritable. Doesn’t make friends. Stand-offish. Sometimes he’s just plain cracked. But then there are the times that he pulls through, against all odds.

Lucky. Morse is _lucky_.

But that’s not all. He’s got that thing – it’s not charisma, it’s not personality, it’s not what movie stars or politicians have got – but it’s _something_ , in spite of his own self. It attracts.

Like he says, not an idiot. Maybe not smart like some, but nobody’s fool.

Thursday will pitch him over when this is all done and Morse comes back. Jakes can’t pretend that he won’t be glad to be done with bagman’s duties, seeing as how things with Joan went pear-shaped and Thursday is clearly pining for his Oxford boy, but there’s still that low, bitter anger boiling in the bottom of his belly.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.

It’s not that it’s not fair – he’d given up on “fair” a long time ago. It’s just that ... well, Jakes had scrounged and fought and been generally slippery and nasty with an eye out for getting to be Thursday’s bagman, for getting a leg up any way he can, and it turns out that the job was never his to angle for.

It’s not so important, he’s quick to remind himself. But the gamble didn’t work and it should have and he’s not immune to that sting. He’d just thought that – well. Never mind what he thought.

And it’s not that Thursday’s been in any way unkind – Jakes just knows what’s up, is all. DIs are allowed to choose their own bagmen. He prefers Morse and that’s that. Small wonder.

_Some of us has got our place in the world, and the rest of us has just got to fight for it_ .

Fine. Yes. Alright.

Jakes lets go his shuddering breath and extinguishes the stub of his cigarette.

He’ll fight harder next time. He’s going to have to.

Bright and Thursday are still at it, but Jakes thinks he can sense a difference in their speech now – they’ve left orders and the case behind, and now they’re talking about whatever it is that old men talk about together.

Jakes makes sure he looks busy when the door opens, but he’s up from his seat in a moment at a look from Thursday.

“Ready to go, sir?” he asks promptly, grabbing his own coat.

If he’d been Morse, Thursday would have had to cough twice to dislodge him from whatever factoid he’d been obsessing over.

As it is, Thursday just gives him a friendly nod. “Right, Sergeant.”

He’s almost always “Sergeant” to Thursday, rarely “Jakes.” He wasn’t sure when he started to mind it, but he does now, a little. His title feels like unintentional mockery, a reminder of the distance between them.

They’re silent for most of the drive home. The night’s unseasonably soggy and Jakes’ hands are cold on the wheel.

Jakes asks questions about the case, as many as he thinks he can get away with, but he’s met with brief answers. Thursday’s head is clearly somewhere else.

Jakes knows.

Finally, quietly, “Morse’ll be back in a week or two, won’t he, sir?”

“I expect so,” says Thursday, his cheerfulness a tad forced. “We don’t know for sure yet, of course.” Silence for the space of a beat, and then – “’Spect you’ll be happy to get on with your duties, eh?”

“’Spect so, sir.” Jakes keeps the bitterness out of his voice, even manages a smile. He knows what’s going to happen next, knows he won’t get far by being seen to be grim and stubborn about it.

_Not good enough. Never enough._

And then, because Jakes can’t seem to help himself, “Going to be happy to have him back, then?”

Thursday has gone still beside him, the way he gets when he’s not comfortable. Or maybe he’s just tired – maybe Jakes is reading too much into this – but for a bright, brittle second, Jakes is glad: he wants Thursday to feel guilty, just a little. Wants to hurt him for sweeping him away with a light _back to regular duties, eh?_

And when Thursday doesn’t respond right away, obviously trying to come up with some neutral response to the inane question, Jakes cuts in quickly again: “Just hope he’s up for it.”

And it’s stupid, because he knows which side Thursday’s on and it sure isn’t Jakes’ but he can’t help himself.

Jakes is acutely aware of the pull of the car’s tires on the cobblestones, the sound of water in the ditch as they plash their way through.

“I’m sure he will be,” comes the quiet response, eventually. “He always has been.” It’s a remonstrance, Jakes knows, but Thursday’s tone is easy and gentle, like he’s trying to be soothing. It’s paternal and it cuts quicker than any rebuke.

Jakes doesn’t dare to glance over at Thursday’s face, or let Thursday see his own. They ride the rest of the way in silence.

“See you in the morning, Sergeant,” says Thursday as he exits the car. Normally he leaves with a silent nod or a tap on the roof of the car, so Jakes supposes this is an olive branch.

Jakes leans over before his DI shuts the door.

“Sir, I – ”

“What is it, Sergeant?”

Thursday leans over to look down at him, face tired but friendly in the gold light of the streetlamp. Even like this, though, the lines of his face are just a little stern, the jaw set firmly against any foolishness or bluster. Jakes has coddled and cajoled a lot of people in his career, but he’s never attempted to pull one over on Thursday.

There’s a trace of discipline in that face and like always, Jakes isn’t sure if he wants to rise to meet it or lean back and provoke it.

Jakes’ mouth has gone dry. Does he know?

“Was I ever good enough for you?”

It’s the question he desperately wants to ask, and for a moment they’re the only words in a heart that’s clenched tight and brittle against the things he could never hope for, could never fight for, because he knows he doesn’t deserve them.

But the moment passes, because Jakes might not be like Morse, but he isn’t a fool.

He takes a breath.

“Nothing, sir. Until tomorrow.”

"Goodnight, Sergeant."

Jakes has lost a lot of fights in his life. Releasing the brake, he pulls away from the curb and slips through the night.

**Author's Note:**

> athena_crikey and narrativeimperative tackle the unconventional pairings.


End file.
